


The Hate Song of J. Stabby Noirfrock

by sonnetstuck



Category: Homestuck, Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T. S. Eliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonnetstuck/pseuds/sonnetstuck
Summary: And indeed there will be timeFor the emerald fire that scales the stony slabs,Scraping its teeth upon the shaded land;There will be time, all too much timeTo prepare a soul to stab the soldiers that you stab;There will be time to murder and to rout,And time for all the prototypes and ringsThat swiftly drop a question on your snout;Time for you and time for me,And time yet for a hundred machinations,And for a hundred negations and damnations,Before the rummaging through dead debris.Based on The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. S. Eliot. Originally posted on sonnetstuck.tumblr.com





	

Let us go then, me and you,  
While the fireflies are trapped below the blue  
Like a hero hypnotized upon a quest bed;  
Let us go, through certain half-demolished lands,  
Through gears and snow and sand,  
Or oily rocks left hanging in the void,  
Or any of the others I’ve destroyed:  
Lands that tempt you, like a pre-lathed cruxite dowel,  
Either beautiful or foul,  
To alchemize an overwhelming question…  
Oh, do not make me say it.  
Let us go, so I may slay it.

In the room the agents came and went  
Having a pointless argument.

The emerald flame that scrapes its teeth upon the shaded land,  
The emerald fire that scrapes its talons on the shaded land  
Forced its beak into the corners of the planet,  
Lingered beside the farmer’s mushroom stand,  
Let flow into its mouth the oil that flows through streams,  
Rushed to the village, loosed a crackling shout,  
But seeing the Hero had done the Windy Thing,  
Submitted to his hand, and petered out.

And indeed there will be time  
For the emerald fire that scales the stony slabs,  
Scraping its teeth upon the shaded land;  
There will be time, all too much time  
To prepare a soul to stab the soldiers that you stab;  
There will be time to murder and to rout,  
And time for all the prototypes and rings  
That swiftly drop a question on your snout;  
Time for you and time for me,  
And time yet for a hundred machinations,  
And for a hundred negations and damnations,  
Before the rummaging through dead debris.

In the room the agents came and went  
Having a pointless argument.

And indeed there will be time  
To wonder, “Will they die?” and, “Will they die?”  
Time to turn back and to split the sky,  
With a weary boredom in my eye—  
[They will say: “How his eyes are showing strain!”]  
My stately pipe, my hat with ears protruding, still urbane,  
My scarf that’s pink and flowing, and asserted by a simple stain—  
[They will say: “How many pawns and rooks he’s slain!”]  
Do I dare  
Destroy the universe?  
In a minute there is time  
For destruction and reduction which no power can reverse.

For I have stabbed them all already, stabbed them all—  
Have stabbed the soldiers, royals, queens and kings,  
I have measured out my life with golden rings;  
I stab the legions, dying with a dying call  
Above the sounds of fire as I take flight.  
So how should I indict?

And I have stabbed the kids already, stabbed them all—  
Except— she trapped me in a tabulated term,  
And when I was tabulated, splayed before a gun,  
When I was gunned down, helpless, in the brawl,  
Then what should I have done  
To prove myself? But no, I squirmed, confirmed—  
And how should I indict?

And I have stabbed the rest already, stabbed them all—  
Sprites that are feathery, and brothers maimed  
[But on the mesa, vanquished all the same!]  
Is it longing for a battle  
That makes me thusly prattle?  
Parents that mumble useless words to their children as they fall.  
And should I then indict?  
And what should I have done?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have flown alone above the Battlefield  
And sniffed the smoke that rises from the pipes  
Of lonely men, with women, sipping out of wineglasses? …

I should have been a pair plushy rumps  
Smuppeting across the blades of shitty swords.

. . . . .

And the children in their towers sleep so restlessly!  
Stoked by horrors, unrelenting,  
Asleep… in nightmares… or inventing,  
Sprawled on his bed, here between you and me.  
Will I, after slaying and ascending,  
Have the strength to force creation to its ending?  
But though I have sneered and slaughtered, sneered and smirked,  
Though I have veiled my eyes [grown slightly strained] behind a pair of shades,  
I was uncertain—and I was afraid;  
I have seen my relevance fade with the Reckoning,  
And I have seen the omniscient Doctor hold a coat, beckoning,  
And in short, I went berserk.

And would it have been worth it, after all,  
After the hats, the parking tickets, her plea,  
Among the pools of blood, among some talk of you and me,  
Would it have been worth while,  
To have parceled out the subject in a pile,  
To have dropped the pumpkin, to let it fall,  
To aim it toward some terrifying question,  
To say: “I am Fedorafreak, risen anew,  
Come back to stab you all, I shall stab you all"—  
If one, winking his eye as if he knew,  
Should laugh: "That is not what you want at all.  
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,  
Would it have been worth while,  
After the towers and the chambers and the heavy desks,  
After the boxes, after the scepters, after the blades that sever massive chains—  
And this, and that which remains—?  
It is impossible to show just what I’ve seen!  
But as if a fenestrated wall cast the motives in writing on a screen:  
Would it have been worth while  
If one, winking his eye or chattering his jaw,  
Lounging limply on my shoulder, should laugh:  
"That is not it at all,  
That is not what you want, at all.“

. . . . .

No! I am not Nic Cage, nor was meant to be;  
Am a Malkovich, maybe playing Cyrus,  
Who’ll kill like creeping cancer (or a virus);  
Deride the star; perhaps a little funny,  
Antagonistic, ready to confront,  
Threatening, vulgar, yet superfluous;  
Full of high violence, but a little blunt;  
At times, indeed, almost innocuous—  
Almost, at times, the Bunny.

I grow bored… I grow bored…  
I shall wear within my chest a bloody sword.

Shall I stab the Heir behind? Do I dare to slay a queen?  
I shall wear black pointed glasses and flicker white and green.  
I have heard the children dying, scream to scream.

I do not doubt that they will scream for me.

I have seen him riding skyward on the wind  
Combing the white hair of the clouds blown through  
When the boy paints the heavens white and blue.

We have lingered by the corpses of the killed  
By dying forms that whisper as they bleed  
Till human children Scratch us, and we’re freed.


End file.
